Intuition
by Blancwene
Summary: Kyp Durron meets his match in an Intelligence agent ... part II up!
1. Sithy Woman

_AN: I started this series of vignettes after someone (I can't remember who) made a comment about how humorous my ditzy characters are.  I started thinking about how different it would be to write from the POV of a very methodical, very composed woman, and "Intuition" was born.  Don't expect consistent updates, for Del's voice comes to me rarely.  Perhaps that's saying something.  Enjoy!_

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Sithy Woman

As a child, I always adored rainy days.  The water, soaking through verdant bristles and staining the willow's bark a dark sienna tone; the air, smothering me with an overpowering sense of calm and serenity; the sky, mixing drab shades of blue and grey into an intriguing aesthetic arrangement.  Despite my mother's protests that I would catch a deadly illness and suffer an excruciatingly painful death, nothing pleased me more than sitting outside in a damp field, watching drops combine with dirt to form a glorious mixture called mud.  Spring showers were delightful.

Once I reached adulthood, I changed my opinion about many things: fashion, politics, food, entertainment, rainy days.  As a carefree Adumari six-year-old, I only knew the benefits of storms.  Ten years with New Republic Intelligence taught me that rain was usually also accompanied by lightning, thunder, uncontrollable gusts of wind, four-foot deep mud pits, electronic difficulties, and a general loss of order on Outer-Rim worlds.  And believe me, I learned those lessons the hard way.

So when my boss gave me an assignment to pick up a rogue informant on some half-populated ball on the edges of Wild Space, I automatically checked the weather report first.

_Usher: cool, temperate climate throughout the year.  On a daily basis it has a 0.25% chance of rain, and 2% humidity.  A lovely, fairly dry world with temperatures ranging from the low to mid 30s._

Someone should remind me to never believe Mon Calamari news again.

Within five minutes of arriving on the Force-forsaken globe, the spaceport owner informed me that Usher's largest storm in about 2500 years was about to descend upon its capital city, Roderick.

My informant's last known residence?  Roderick.

By the time I arrived at Egaeus Ligeia's apartment building, the skies had literally torn apart.  Water fell continuously, like precision shots, drenching my clothing, ruining my new leather boots, falling in droplets from my soaked hair to my chilled face, then trickling down the remaining centimeters to my unbelievably soggy tunic.  The wind roared with dangerous intensity, 50-kmph blasts straining my attempts to keep my two feet planted on the ground.  Diamond bolts flashed across the sky as I struggled to input the correct lock code.  17617791.

Nothing happened.  I screamed, stamped my feet, cursed Ligeia's ancestors and immediate family as I quickly entered the code again.  A faint whirring sound emerged from the lock; that was followed by the explosive grind of circuits inside the mechanism shorting out of existence.  I was not pleased, to say the least.

Bitter water rushed down my face and obscured my vision.  I could feel the weight of my long thick ponytail increasing by the second, and a furtive swipe of my hand across my face revealed that my waterproof makeup was in fact very conducive to H2O.  The mirrored reflection of myself in a window's transparisteel pane confirmed my worst fears: I looked hideous.  While most operatives aren't know for obsessing about their physical appearance, I actually minded what others saw when they looked at me, and spent precious money on expensive facial products and moisturizing crèmes.  I may not have been as pretty as my flaky blonde cousin, one-time flame of Kyp Durron, but I made the most of my irregular features and weight problem and managed to look pretty damn good most of the time.

Not now, though.  That horrid climate had chilled my tan face, so I looked like a distant relative of Lord Nyax with pale, slightly bluish skin.  My bronzer was nonexistent, my eye shadow lost without a trace, and my mascara had run down my cheeks, leaving black crusty trails behind.  Everything was messed up, disorderly…except my lipstick.  Before Coruscant fell, "Infinite Wear" color gloss was discontinued so I bought 40 of them in deep blood red.  The package had advertised 18-hour coverage in even the most awful weather conditions, and I guess it was true.  Looking at my image, with dark, almost raven hair, unnaturally white complexion, jet eyes, sinister black facial markings, and full ruby lips, I couldn't help thinking of that Pekkie Blu and the Starboys song, "Sithy Woman."  

I always knew I hated that tune.

I was fully absorbed in my hatred of this kriffin' mission when the door mysteriously slid open.  I paused, droplets glistening on my hair and arms, and glanced around anxiously.  Not a soul in sight.  And the funny thing was that I couldn't recall entering the code again in the last five minutes.  Shrugging it off as mere coincidence, I stepped carefully inside and took a look around.

My surroundings had definitely not improved.  The overhead lights flickered sporadically; the walls were home to millions of mold cultures; the entire duracrete floor was drowned in six inches of murky water; the only remaining furniture was a decaying bench in the left corner; the ceiling oozed some filthy liquid every five seconds.  But the thing that concerned me most was not the unsanitary environment, or the probably imminent loss of electricity.  No, my dilemma was much worse than any of those things: both of the lifts were broken.

This was unexpected.  Originally, I believed that all my mission required was for me to stop by a lovely planet, grab the informant, and leave for Mon Calamari.  I hadn't planned for the difficulties I was now facing.

Repeated poundings on the doors yielded no results, and I noted with anxiousness that the water level in the room was rising as quickly as a seranca's metabolism.  I began to wonder _why_ I was in Intell in the first place, because it offered mediocre pay for someone of my experience and the crappiest assignments known to man.  Was it the adrenaline high I experienced in life-or-death situations, or simply the fact that I couldn't do any other kind of work?  I was more comfortable living as a fictional persona than I was as a real woman.  Did that make me any less human?

Musings on my existence weren't going to make those doors open any faster.  I was searching for my survival tool, hoping I'd be able to hotwire the lift into submission, when I heard the dull groaning of strained metal.  Spinning, I almost fell over in surprise at the sight that awaited me.

The lift on the right was open, and emergency panels gleamed faintly.  And that was when I began to realize that something was seriously wrong.  Broken turbolifts don't just start working on their own; someone in this building, possibly Ligeia, or perhaps some total stranger, was leading me into a trap.  I reached for my side holster, and was comforted by the reassuring metallic coolness of my blaster pistol.  There was something funny going on, and I was not going to be caught unaware.

And as I stepped into the lift, I felt the soft brush of a presence, and heard the faint whispers of a voice, chanting a familiar melody.  The sensation increased, goose bumps formed along my spine, but when I turned there was no one.  The room was deserted.

Gathering my nerve, I pressed the button for the fourth floor and tried to ignore the riotous fears in my brain.  If I really was in the middle of a game of Rancor-and-Womprat, I planned on being the fiercest kriffin' womprat imaginable.  I pulled my blaster out, checked its charge, and braced myself for a standoff.

The lift doors opened, I leapt out, and found myself surrounded by…silence.  No armed thugs hid in the shadows, no automatic blaster rifles peered from inside doorways.  I paused to slow my breathing, and took some time to reflect on the situation.  Either my opponent was stupid enough to not know a good ambush spot when he saw one, which was highly unlikely, or he had a bigger web spun somewhere up ahead.  Personally, I was leaning towards the latter idea, which probably meant that the most critical moment would be when I walked into Ligeia's apartment.  The Intelligence handbook stated "…in situations of genuine emergency, the agent should never do anything alone.  One should always call for reinforcements first."

Well, screw the rules.  Besides, I've always believed that the handbook is only a collection of guidelines, merely some helpful suggestions.

I crept forward, my right hand visibly trembling as I approached Room 4351.  The moldy tiles squeaked as I put my weight on them, but I no longer cared.  The sooner I finished this job, the sooner I could be somewhere with civilization.  I was carried along by my false bravado for a few seconds, buoyed up on artificial confidence.  I was perfectly fine.

Then it happened again: the touch of someone else, another consciousness.  I halted, too frightened to take another step, and all my courage melted away like snow in the tropics.  And flitting somewhere in negative space, moving like a restless wind, was that disembodied voice, humming a tune that I could not for the life of me recall.  The owner of said vocal cords was male, neither tenor nor bass, but with a middling range; the hummer also possessed no sense of proper pitch.  The song floated around me, taunting, prompting, daring me to go further.  I clamped my eyes shut, and tried to think clearly.  I _had_ to get Ligeia.  My job depended on this mission, and I wasn't about to let any mystical nonsense get in the way of my career and me.

Wrapping my finger tighter around my blaster's trigger, I rushed forward, input Ligeia's code, then ran into the apartment faster than you could say "Halbegardia City."  The mysterious, unseen thing seemed to push me towards the left, so against my better judgment I headed towards that area, dropped into a crouch, and brought up my pistol to shoot…

Only to be utterly bewildered by the scene laid before me.  A pale, smallish man, who looked incredibly like Egaeus Ligeia, was sitting on the floor, wrists locked in cuffs and mouth covered by a strip of engine tape, and his weary eyes seemed to be pleading for release.  But Ligeia wasn't the sole occupant of the room.  Stretched out on a ratty sofa, a black cloak wrapped around his lanky frame and a Corellian pastry in his sticky hands, was a man I knew quite well.  Too well.  His hair had more grey strands among the black than last time, but everything else was as I remembered: the dark, fringed eyes, the sharp, yet still handsome features, the wry grin.  I stood, stalked towards him, and frowned.

"Kyp Durron.  What a pleasant surprise."

He looked hurt by my biting tone, but still smiled.  "Delila, the pleasure is all mine.  Please, have a seat."

I remained standing.  "What are you doing here?  This was my assignment."

"Well, you know I told Jule that I'd do anything for her or her family.  I was on Usher to get some repairs for my X-wing, when I ran into this fellow in the market, overheard some traitorous conversations, and decided to get him and wait for the token Intelligence agent to show up.  I had a feeling it'd be you."

"Thank you for your help, but I didn't need it."

He looked so amused that I seriously considered throttling him; after a few seconds of consideration, though, I realized that with a Jedi that wouldn't be too wise.  He continued.  "Really?  You felt pretty panicky down below."

"That was you?  Opening doors, scaring the krell out of me?"

"Of course.  I couldn't resist having a little fun with a friend."

"Acquaintance," I corrected.  "You're no friend of mine."

He winked.  "How rude.  I would have expected better from an Adumari.  But then again, you are a Sithy woman."

My temper flared.  That was the song!  If looks could kill, I was cutting him up into microscopic pieces and feeding the bits to his mother.  "Shut up."

He started singing, a memory that I've tried to erase.  "Raven hair and ruby lips, sparks fly from her fingertips.  Echoed voices in the night, she's a restless spirit on an endless flight."

"Shut up."

Those brown eyes glimmered evilly.  "Ooo, Sithy woman, see how high she flies.  Ooo, Sithy woman, she's got the moon in her eyes!"

I strode forward and did something that will forever be recorded in history: I, Delila Gaela Fionnuala ke Blaec, slapped Jedi Master Kyp Durron.

And life never felt so good.

_tbc_


	2. Lying Eyes

_AN: Blame the oddness and sarcasm on caffeine. I don't know why this one came out like it did, but…well, it's certainly unlike other viggies I've written. Whether that's good, I don't know. Enjoy!_

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**Lying Eyes**

I hate my cousin.

I know, the statement may sound a little cruel and harsh, but it's absolutely true. My cousin, Lady Juliene ke Greso-Bacherr, is one of the dippiest, ditziest, haughtiest women this side of the sworl. She has an empty head, a vacuum for a brain, and the most irritating friends.

The fact that she's my little cousin only makes it worse.

Some people would say that it's not so much hatred that I feel, but envy. Envy for her beautiful face, her fabulous figure, her caring husband, and her altogether perfect life. But I don't think that's true. Yes, sometimes I wish that I too had an easy existence, and someone who could hold me in his arms and force every worry from my mind. Those are just wishes, though, dreams that could never be fulfilled. They're too aerial, too unrealistic for me.

There is only one belonging of the illustrious Lady Jule that I do covet: her appearance. The Force must have a sense of humor, for how else can you explain the fact that she's tall, slim, and attractive while I'm…I won't even go there. I just wish I could scrap my genes and begin anew. I mean, Jule's my first cousin; where the hell did my features come from? I'm short, with a figure that resembles an hour-glass/pear hybrid, an ample derriere, too large everything, and the most blah hair in the galaxy. My face? Irregular, with a large, full mouth, very prominent cheekbones, wide-set slanted eyes, long nose, and sharp chin. I'm not pretty; my only noticeable quirk is that I don't look like your average plain Laine. I think my mother's to blame. She was curvy, too, but at least she was tall and stately. I'm only 160 centimeters, and my weight…

I digress. I haven't fought those inner demons for a long time, having vanquished them when I reached adulthood. But they returned.

And it's all due to my detestable cousin.

Last week, I was enjoying a short respite from my Intelligence work on Mon Calamari. Free time is rare for one of my occupation, so I was utilizing my time wisely. And of course, that meant I was raiding local boutiques for genuine bargains. I have some feminine instincts, and of those shopping is the strongest. I get the oddest satisfaction when I'm able to drag fifteen outfits home and boast that I only paid 100 credits for the pieces. It fulfills my womanly duties, and I don't always mind showing my softer side.

It was on one such occasion that I received a comm call from that damned cousin of mine. Jule's high-pitched drawl is unmistakable, but the words she uttered were even more painful. "Del sweetie! Are you busy tonight?"

I tried to invent a previous engagement, so I could truthfully refuse her offer. But unfortunately, I couldn't improvise a lie for the life of me. It was one of those odd moments: Delila ke Blaec, experienced Intelligence agent, incapable of fibbing to an ignorant blonde. I could have shot myself. "No. What do you want?"

"Well, dearest cousin of mine, I just wanted to have you over for a little girl talk and all. Chris is on a mission, and Mother took baby Iarla for a few weeks, so I'm a little lonely. Can you come?"

"Sure," I said reluctantly. I couldn't stand talking to Jule for more than five minutes; she sounded so forlorn, though, that I couldn't refuse. Depressed Juliene was a new experience that I didn't want to miss. "What time should I come by?"

"1800. And dress nicely for a change."

She clicked off before I could come back with a biting retort. Stupid flake. But I still showed up on her doorstep, dressed in my new palazzo pants and silk tunic, hair arranged in the new Rylothian style, and face tastefully painted. I guess I felt like making a good impression, and showing that I've got some fashion sense buried beneath my sarcastic exterior.

Jule answered the door, and I felt like a frumpy old maid immediately. She was wearing casual clothing, a simple blue shift, but the difference in our appearances was enough to make me shriek. For that is another thing I hold against her: the way she can wear anything, from a ballgown to a baggy flightsuit, and yet still look attractive. I narrowed my eyes in disgust, and was prepared to walk away when she grabbed my arm and dragged me into the living room.

"Oh, Del, I'm so glad you showed up on time! I detest tardiness." She pushed me onto the sofa and pulled up a chair opposite me before I'd even realized I was trapped in her quarters. "Is that new? Very nice. And your hair looks…um…interesting! I hope you've given up on that dark lip-gloss. The color just doesn't suit your skin tone, dear. If you want, I can take you out for some new cosmetic products tomorrow."

She glanced down at me hopefully. I glared. "I happen to like crimson. It makes me stand out in a crowd. Now, are we going to spend the whole evening criticizing my taste or shall we attempt more intelligent conversation?"

Jule snorted, and the way she wrinkled her nose reminded me of a wild nerf. It was an amusing sight, but I refrained from laughing. I'd learned that it was acceptable for Her Flightiness to giggle at things; however, if even her husband let out a little snicker she would retreat into a sulky fit for at least fifteen minutes. Chris Bacherr claimed it was the result of too much estrogen in her system, but I had my doubts. She was just an annoying person. "Del, you are so funny! Do you know what the baby did the last time I tried to give her a bath?"

"She bit your finger."

"How did you know?"

I groaned. "You've told me this story five times already. It was cute the first time I heard it, but it seems to increase in stupidity with each subsequent retelling."

She huffed, insulted, and I noticed that she kept on looking furtively over at the entrance. Strange. Who was she waiting for? It couldn't be her mischievous partner in crime, Wes Janson, because Chris had forbidden that man from getting within 1000 meters of the apartment after Janson stole the E-wing pilot's underwear. Since the consequence of breaking that rule would mean the destruction of Janson's beloved Kettch, Jule would never risk smuggling the man over to plan more evil schemes. No, it must be someone closer to home. That clueless Jedi, Brodey whatever? Jule's former handmaiden, Xia Lein? One of the Wraiths?

"Del, I would have expected better of you. After all I've done for you, why must you always insult me?"

"I'm just telling the truth."

"Whatever. You're so mean sometimes."

She pouted, and I couldn't help grinning. "Thank you. I take pride in formulating the most cutting statements possible. Honesty always works better with a hint of malice."

But really, cruel words were my most effective disguise. No one wants to befriend a bitter-tongued hag, so I was often left to myself. That was fine with me. The fewer idiots to deal with, the better. The majority of people never took the time to look past my sarcasm and discover what I really was: a lonely woman. I'd never had any suitors, like lovely Jule, or tons of amiable buddies. Or even one good pal, for that matter. I spent my working hours absorbed in my assignments, and my unoccupied times in solitude. A little disappointing, sometimes, but I've learned to live with it.

"Delila," Jule said, her face utterly serious, "I'm worried about you. It's not right to be by yourself so much. I've been thinking that-"

The door chime sounded. She jumped up, an excited glow spreading across her cheeks, and scrambled to answer it. "I wonder who this could be…"

What a little liar. Didn't she realize that it was blatantly obvious what was going on? Concerned with my aloofness, she must have rung up some close acquaintances for a lively chat with her melancholy cousin. I tried to spot a possible escape route. There were none. Sighing, I sank into the cushions and consigned myself to this fate.

The door slid open, and I strained my neck to spy the mysterious visitors. Actually, there was only one. I caught a glimpse of a tan face, long black hair, brooding eyes, girlish eyelashes, and a white-teethed smile; I almost threw up. Swallowing bile, I settled for screaming.

"You little kriffin' sithspitter! Get out of here now!"

Kyp Durron winked. "Is that any way to greet me, Miss ke Blaec? Good evening to you, too."

My behind was stuck in the crack between two cushions, and I couldn't stand up, much less run away. More obscenities spewed forth from my mouth. "Have you made it your krelling goal in life to bug the hell out of me? Dammit, Durron, go back to Byss where you belong."

Jule appointed herself the unofficial referee of this rather one-sided argument. "Now, Del, Kyp is my friend, so he has as much a right to be here as you do. I'm not kicking him out of my apartment just because you don't like him. That's why I invited him over in the first place. You two need to talk out your differences and forgive each other. Grudges are unhealthy."

"I'm not holding anything against our little demon here," Kyp replied, his eyes twinkling. "I've forgotten all about that little incident on Usher."

I finally rocked to my feet and stalked towards him. "Well I damn right haven't. I swear, Durron, if you provoke me again I will do worse things than just slap you."

"Like what?"

"Like killing you, for instance."

Jule butted in. "That's not very nice talk, Del. Would you like some rhyscate?"

"No. You can stuff your dessert back up where it came from for all I care. Master Durron used his creepy powers to play a trick on me and I refuse to forgive him."

Kyp laughed, and I felt my hands balling into fists. I would have loved to see him with a bloody nose, but Jule would've freaked at red stains on her white designer carpet. Internally heated and Kuati-manufactured, no less. I relaxed and tried to expel some of my anger while he spoke.

"Del, I must admit that is true. I meant it only as a bit of fun, and I apologize if I scared you or injured your pride in any way."

Jule reemerged from the kitchen, and handed me a glass of some alcoholic beverage. "See? That was easy, wasn't it? Now, why don't we all have a drink? A toast, anyone?"

"How about to Durron's upcoming demise?"

"Or to Delila's approaching unemployment?" Kyp countered.

I rolled my eyes. "Or in hope that Master Durron will get a new haircut soon, because it looks like a mutant whisperkit is glued on his head."

"Please…" Jule whispered, tears forming in her eyes.

"Or in preparation for the extensive plastic surgery Miss ke Blaec is about to undergo, so she'll no longer resemble a female version of Emperor Palpatine. Here," he snapped, throwing a five-credit coin on the ground, "is my donation towards that operation."

I looked him straight in the eye and growled. "I hate everything about you, Kyp Durron."

Jule fled from the room, sobbing, and he smirked. "I'm afraid I can't repay that compliment. I hate everything about you but your bum. It's sexy."

And before I had time to react, he reached around and smacked that same body part.

I turned the same shade as my lipstick, stood bewildered for a second, then tossed my drink in his face.

But as I left, I couldn't help dwelling on one thought: Kyp Durron actually liked something about me.

Maybe I'm not that ugly after all.

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_tbc_


End file.
